Merry’s Present
by Mariole
Summary: Young Merry discovers surprising facts about his Cousin Frodo’s life. Warning: Some discussion about death. Book canon, complete.


Merry found Frodo by the sound of the pipe. It wafted, low and melodic, among the stems of the trees and over the sun-warmed grasses of the lazy afternoon. At last Merry found his cousin, at the very southern edge of the Bucklebury lands, where the River began its lonely descent to Standelf, five miles off. Frodo was leaning against the gnarled trunk of a grandfather tree, with its thick roots plunging into the very water of the Brandywine. He was simply dressed, in faded shirt and breeks. His lashes were lowered and his expression contemplative. He looked young—more as he had used to look, before Bilbo had taken him away to Hobbiton five years ago—and in so doing, taking away the closest thing that Merry had known to a brother. Frodo's occasional visits, like now, could but poorly make up for the loss.

But here he was now, piping! Merry couldn't help but swell with pride. Merry had given him that pipe almost a full year before, on Merry's eleventh birthday. It was an experiment, actually. His Uncle Merimac had taught his son Berilac and Merry both how to make a simple pipe. "A shepherd's flute," he had called it. He showed them how to hollow out the tube with a heated brand, where to cut the notch for the sound to go through, and carve the seven fingerholes along the top. Beri had taken to his right away, composing tunes that seemed to spring from the water and fields. Merry had discovered no such talent within himself, but had found the act of creation, of carving the actual pipe, to be intensely satisfying.

He set to work on a new, bigger pipe made of maple wood. When he at last set his lips to the mouthpiece, its deep, melodic tone pleased him. It seemed appropriate for Frodo, for whom the pipe was intended. Merry was all nerves and excitement when he presented it to his cousin, who as usual had made the trip back from Bag End to be with Merry on his birthday. Frodo had accepted it gravely. He put his lips to the mouthpiece, but didn't blow. Then he smiled at Merry, and set it aside. Now and again, while his visit lasted, Merry would see him trying the pipe, always when he was alone and, as he thought, unobserved. It was obvious that Frodo knew little more about piping than Merry did. But he was working at it, which warmed Merry's heart. Merry hoped he would continue to practice, so that Merry might come to mind even when he was far away.

And now! Merry drew near, to listen to his cousin close at hand. He approached from downstream, so as to use the cover of the bushes that grew with wild abandon in a sunny spot at that part of the riverbank. Frodo had certainly mastered the instrument over the past year. The tune was doleful, but not dour. It drifted above the sun-streaked waters of the Brandywine like an erratic breeze, swirling over the dark, riffled surface, to float away on the wind. It was enchanting and engaging, yet disturbing as well. Perhaps it was the emotion of the tune, so very sad, particularly compared to the light-hearted piping that Beri excelled at. Or perhaps it was Frodo's intensity. He seemed completely absorbed in the song. His posture against the tree suggested an ease which was wholly absent upon closer observation. Frodo was as poised as a hunting hawk, tilting above the River, waiting for his moment.

The song ended. Frodo let his arms sink to his side; his gaze fell absently to the sun-streaked water. Merry sighed, feeling as if he'd been released from a spell. Frodo had certainly made good use of his gift. Merry felt a thrill at that—not merely because his cousin had enjoyed last year's present, which was praise enough. But Merry was not through carving. This year, he planned to give Frodo a complete set of Kings and Trolls. He'd carved every counter himself. He thought it might be something that Frodo could play with Bilbo, in that spacious hole of theirs. Merry's apparent success with the pipe suggested that Frodo might appreciate such a gift. It was a relief to Merry's mind, and made him wiggle with anticipated delight.

Whatever tension was present in Frodo's piping seemed to have ended with the song. He now looked rather melancholy, or perhaps merely sleepy. Merry dithered whether or not to approach his cousin. Apparently, he had surprised Frodo at an awkward time; he was not at all certain if it was better to attempt to lighten his mood, or to slip away and catch him later. It now occurred to Merry that he hadn't heard Frodo piping at any time during his stay, which had begun a sennight ago. Perhaps the piping was meant to be secret—a surprise, possibly, for Merry's upcoming birthday? In that case, Merry revealing himself now would be the worst possible course.

There was a plop, as of a branch hitting the water. Merry looked quickly towards Frodo, from where the noise had come. His cousin stood as before, as unmoving as if he were carved of stone. But now his hands were empty. Merry narrowed his eyes. From beneath the shadow of the great tree's canopy, a slick, smooth stick moved into the sunlight, bourne upon the surface of the River. Frodo's pipe.

"_Hai!_" Merry leaped from his hiding place towards the bank, bounding over the scratchy willow bushes that tangled about his legs. Without a moment's hesitation, Merry sprang from the bank and into the River, his hand stretched out.

He missed, of course. His hand closed upon nothing, and then the River closed over him. The first layer of water, just under the surface, was warm. But just beneath it lay the shock of the River's cold. Normally, Merry would have appreciated its relief; he often swam in the summer months. But now, he was impatient with the River's ponderous silence, and how its murky grey-green water obscured his sight. He kicked strongly, and popped to the surface again. He flung the water from his hair, and looked about.

The pipe bobbed away from him, skittering downstream. Merry lunged after it. In a few strokes, he had it in his hand. Safe! Grinning, he turned his course upriver. He made no headway against the current, of course—not swimming one-handed, as he must with the pipe. But at least this way he would not be swept all the way to Standelf.

Merry immediately saw Frodo upon the shore. Of course, Merry's shout and splash would have alerted him. Frodo stood knee-deep, wetting the hem of his breeks, frowning against the sun's glare. When Merry met his eyes, Frodo's look changed to astonishment. He waited in the shallows, until Merry swam close enough to reach his extended hand. He gave a great pull. Merry whooshed out upon the shore, spluttering from the cold and wet. He shook himself like a dog, then held out the pipe triumphantly.

"Here!" he gasped. "I rescued it for you. What did you do, fall asleep and let it go?"

Frodo looked slightly befuddled. He took the pipe without comment, then led Merry through the sticky muck higher upon the shore, so they both stood upon dry land. The heat radiated up from the ground and fell over Merry from above. Already his body was dispelling the River's chill.

Frodo tucked the pipe under his arm, then began undoing Merry's buttons. "You should get these off, or you'll never dry." He unfastened the waistcoat, and Merry obediently lifted his arms for Frodo to remove it. Frodo draped it over a bush, then started in on the top of Merry's shirt, whilst Merry went after the bottom. "What are you doing so far from the Hall? I hardly think you were looking for a spot to jump in."

"I was looking for you, if you must know. Mum said you went down to the River. You weren't anywhere near the ferry, so I started to walk. At last I heard you piping, and followed the sound here."

Frodo stripped Merry's shirt from him, and laid it across another bush. He pointed at Merry's trouser buttons. "Step out. You shall have to air dry, as neither of us brought a towel."

"I didn't intend to swim," Merry said, unbuttoning as he was bid. "I only meant to find you. But when I did… I thought you mightn't like to be disturbed. I shouldn't have let you know I was here at all, if you hadn't dropped your pipe. But you seemed to be dreaming. Didn't you notice it fall?"

Frodo paused, looking troubled.

Immediately, Merry felt contrite. "I didn't mean to spy on you. The song… it was quite lovely. I didn't like to interrupt. So I came up quietly. And then, afterwards, I thought you might prefer to be alone." Merry stepped out of his soaked breeks and underlinens, and arranged them across the willows. He stood there, naked, looking at the curve of Frodo's cheek as his cousin stared towards the River. An errant breeze curled round Merry's damp skin, and he shivered. "You're angry with me, aren't you? Because I spoiled your surprise, about how you could play so very well."

Frodo gently shook his head. "Not at all. Come onto the grass here. We'll have a chat."

Merry followed Frodo cautiously, from long practice holding the branches well aside to avoid scratches. In a few steps, he joined his cousin in a small clearing among the bushes. Frodo had thrown off his bracers, and was unbuttoning his shirt. "This might be more comfortable for you to sit on," he explained, stripping it off and tossing it to Merry. Then he sat cross-legged on some grass, fiddling with the drying pipe in his hands.

Merry spread out Frodo's shirt over a grassy tuft, then seated himself. He felt peaceful after his unexpected bath; he liked Frodo sitting quietly with him like this, bare-shouldered, with the breeze lifting his hair. It reminded him of the days they used to go swimming together, back when Frodo was a regular member of the family. Frodo had been present at every meal for as far back as Merry could remember, as essential to Merry's sense of family as his mum and dad. It was Frodo who had taught Merry to swim. His dad did a little, but it was Frodo who had the time to teach him really well. Merry wondered if he might coax Frodo into a swim later, as he was half stripped already. But something in Frodo's manner told Merry that he was not thinking about swimming.

Merry said carefully, "I am truly sorry if I ruined anything."

Frodo shook his head gently. He looked at Merry, then down at the pipe in his lap. He asked softly, "Do you know what day this is?"

"Certainly!" Merry was surprised. "It's Sterday, eight days before my birthday."

"It's the 29th of Afterlithe." Frodo looked away towards the River again. "Fourteen years ago today—or more precisely, later this evening—was the last time my parents were alive."

Merry hastily lowered his head. Of course he knew the story; everyone did. Frodo's dad and mum had gone boating after dinner one night, and never came back. He'd never realized the date was so close to his birthday, however. Perhaps no one had ever told him. Merry associated the end of Afterlithe only with the usual bustle and preparation that went along with a large party, which all of Merry's birthday parties tended to be. Only now, for the first time, did it strike him that Frodo always began his stay several days early. Did he visit the River on his own every year? Merry struggled to remember. Frodo often kept his own company. If he'd slipped away in years past to honor the date, Merry had no recollection of it. It shamed him and confounded him. Merry tried to feel sadness, and failed. He had never met Frodo's parents. They had died three years before Merry was born. It was their passing which had made Frodo a member of Merry's family. If he could feel any sadness at all, it was because the cousin he loved most in the world was feeling something that Merry couldn't understand.

Frodo met Merry's eyes. "We never talked about this, did we?"

Solemnly, Merry shook his head.

"Your parents must have told you the story."

"The story, but not the date." Merry mulled. "Perhaps they didn't mean to upset me, as my birthday follows so hard after."

"Yes. It was curious, the year you were born. Everyone was so excited—Saradoc was to have an heir at last! I think every midwife in the country descended upon the Hall, just to be on hand in case anything should be needed. There were flags and banners all round the smial, and tents set up everywhere, with minstrels playing. It was like a fair. Bets were placed on the hour and day, and your impish streak made itself known immediately, for you defeated them all. Instead of being born early, which half the crowd was hoping for, you were born five days late. I think all of Buckland came to a halt that day, until it was known that everything had turned out well."

Merry, who had been smiling, grew concerned. "What does it mean, to be born late?'"

Frodo frowned. "I'm not sure that it means much of anything. The midwives make a guess as to when the baby is due, from its size or position or something. And if you're born later than the day they say, you're late. A few days either way doesn't matter, as far as I can tell. You just don't want to be terribly early, as then the babe is weak, or terribly late, as then the babe becomes too large for the mother to birth safely."

Merry's concern advanced to alarm. "You don't suppose I hurt her, by being late? That is," he stumbled upon receiving Frodo's keen look. "I don't have any brothers or sisters. Might I have done something to harm her, without meaning to?"

"No." Frodo looked uncertain, then spoke more confidently. "No, certainly not. Five days is not enough to make a speck of difference either way. I think your mum has always had difficulty conceiving. That is why they were so glad when you were born."

Merry nodded, enormously relieved. He missed Frodo cruelly when he was gone. He'd often wished for a younger brother or sister, but nearly twelve years had gone by, and no such luck. Perhaps it was as Frodo said, and it was nobody's fault, really. He was sure his parents would have had another child if they could.

Then Merry, counting backwards, arrived at the logical conclusion. "So, according to the midwives, I should have been born three days from now."

"That's right. That's when everyone expected you to arrive."

"Except for the ones who thought I'd be early."

Frodo nodded.

Merry shifted, uncomfortable. "So then, I might have been born on the day your parents died."

Frodo gazed back over the River. "That was a possibility."

Merry felt aghast. "What a dreadful thing to happen!"

"No, it wasn't." Frodo leaned over to jiggle Merry's knee reassuringly. "There is _nothing_ I regret about you coming into the world. Nothing at all."

"But it must have been awkward for you." Merry was too agitated to sit still. "I mean, it wasn't that many years since… the accident. You must have been distressed."

"It is always difficult for me, but not because of the day. Because of a thousand little things. The way Mum would sing while she worked, or Dad's big laugh when he would swing me into the air. Sitting about the breakfast parlor with the sun coming in, making gold highlights in everybody's hair. Those kind of things." Frodo shrugged, but Merry felt it as a pain in his own heart. The kinds of things Frodo missed about his parents were the same things that Merry missed about Frodo. Merry had never before wondered about it, until today.

"But the day itself, "Merry persisted. "It must be important. That's why you came down the River, isn't it?"

"We do observe it, every year," Frodo said. "Your parents and I. We walk out to the gravesite, and hold a little ceremony."

Merry's jaw fell. "Every year?" He felt amazed. It was as if those closest to him had been leading a secret life, and he'd known nothing about it.

"Almost every year," said Frodo. "They walk out with me, and we place fresh flowers, then all of us recall things about my parents. Sometimes other friends and relations come, but the Brandybuck family prefers to remember Mum on her birthday. So it's usually just us three."

For all of Merry's shock, he was not insensitive to what "_almost_ every year" might mean. "But they didn't go the year I was born," he said flatly.

"No." Frodo plucked at a grass stem. "You could hardly expect them to do it that year. The walk was beyond your mother, for one thing, and your father was in such a state I think he hardly knew what day it was."

Merry found this hard to believe. One of his father's favorite jokes was to announce how his son was born on a "Sunday" —a _son _day, get it? It seemed so unfair for all of Buckland to be focused on Merry, when poor Frodo hadn't anyone at all.

Frodo sensed Merry's distress, as always. He touched his fist lightly to Merry's chin. "You're taking this harder than I did, I assure you. Merry, honestly, do not let it trouble you. I observed my parents' passing in my own way that year. Indeed, in a way it felt right to be on my own for once, acknowledging them just for myself."

Merry hesitated. "Like you did today."

"Yes. The song was for them."

Suddenly, a realization dawned on Merry. He said sharply, "You didn't drop the pipe by accident. You let it go."

Frodo was silent. He studied the pipe in his hands.

Merry's chest heaved, as if he had taken a punch. "You were… giving it up… giving to _them_?" Despite all he had heard, it still hurt, knowing that Frodo could simply throw away Merry's gift like that. His heart thudded.

Frodo spoke reluctantly. "In a way, I suppose. It felt… right, to let it go, once I'd played their farewell song for them."

Merry looked away. It didn't make sense. Why should Frodo wish to get rid of Merry's pipe, simply because he had played a song for his parents on it?

Uncannily, Frodo saw through him—as usual. He said gently, "I'd never had a chance to say farewell to them properly, you see. And afterwards… I was too staggered to think of doing anything of the kind. Everything was too sudden and strange. Last year, when I received your gift, it felt like such a perfect thing to give. Something I wished I had thought to do, had I known better at the time."

Merry was confused. "But you don't pipe, or never used to. Why should this pipe seem so right?"

"Because you made it with your hands. Because you gave it out of love. Because you were eleven."

Merry dropped his head. At length he said, "So my pipe became something like flowers on a grave?"

"Yes." Frodo smiled in relief. "That's just what it was like; the farewell I wished I had made at the time." Frodo looked rueful. "You might think it silly, but I'm always saying farewell to everyone these days, if only in my heart. I've learnt… you can't count on seeing people again. That's why I try to show them, when we're together, how much they mean to me. That way, if we do end up parting forever, I won't have that regret shadowing my heart." He shrugged. "That's what I try to do, anyway."

Merry nodded gravely. Frodo always explained things so well. He did such a good job, in fact, that Merry's initial dismay gave way to regret. "You meant to say farewell to your parents today," he said dully. "And I ruined it."

"No. No, you didn't." Frodo clasped Merry's hand in his. "You were right to bring the pipe back. The River has taken enough from me. It didn't need one thing more."

Merry swallowed hard. He'd never had such a conversation in his life. It was dizzying and frightening, to see so far into his cousin's mind. How could anyone be so calm? If Merry lost his parents, he didn't know how he might react. He'd have ended up raving, surely. Uneasily, he asked, "Were you there, when it happened? Did you see…?"

Frodo shook his head. "I was in bed. My parents had said goodnight, then sent me off with my nurse. I didn't know anything about it until Aunt Esme woke me the next morning."

Merry's mum had told him. His heart skipped a beat. "What did she say?"

"She just told me what had happened, the same as she must have told you." He paused. "I imagine it must have been the hardest thing she ever had to do."

Merry nodded. Such a happening was too huge for comment. This tragedy, he'd never felt it before. Even knowing it had happened… Frodo always seemed to be happy. Collected, quiet sometimes, but overall content. Yet here he had been, Merry's whole life, carrying such memories as Merry could not begin to comprehend.

Frodo gestured at the riverbank. "This is where they took them out. The bank makes a bit of a curve, and here they came to rest. This clearing—" Frodo swept his hand to indicate the willow brake in which they sat. "They made it that night. It was late, and no one wanted to ferry them upriver until they knew why my parent's boat had overturned. So they knocked down a few trees to bring a wagon in, and carried them back to the Hall that way. That's where I saw them, the next day." He looked at Merry distantly, his eyes seeming to take in Merry's appearance rather than his expression. "Fourteen years ago," he said softly. "I was two months younger than you are now." His eyes traveled over Merry's face, wonderingly. He opened his lips as if to add something, then shook his head, and looked again towards the River.

Merry's breast heaved. He couldn't remember ever feeling so shattered. Too bowled over to think clearly, he asked, "Did they ever find out what happened?"

Frodo shook his head. "I tried to imagine it, of course. What went wrong. Mum was a wonderful swimmer; she taught me. Dad was… well. He was from Hobbiton." Frodo shrugged. The seemingly offhand movement sent a pang through Merry's heart. "So I try to work it out. Did they hit a snag, and Dad fell in, and Mum tried to save him, only he was too heavy for her, and the current took them down? Or did the boat tip, and Mum hit her head somehow, and Dad tried to save her, only he wasn't a strong enough swimmer, so he just kept holding her as the Brandywine took them farther and farther from help, until his strength gave out, and they sank?"

Merry shuddered—not merely at the appalling images Frodo was creating, which were horrific enough—but also by Frodo's leaden delivery, as if part of his spirit had been dragged down by the Brandywine as well. Dragged beneath the surface, chilled and smothered.

Not knowing what to do, he took Frodo's hand. "I'm so dreadfully sorry," he whispered. "All this time… I was always so happy that you were in my family. Like a brother. I always felt closer to you than to anybody else. I don't think it's just because you were always there. I felt we understood each other, somehow. Perhaps because we are both alone." Frodo's eyes snapped to Merry's face. Merry faltered under the intensity of the gaze, then pushed on. "That's how it feels. You have no brothers or sisters, and neither do I. When you left, it felt like there was a great hole at the table, like the hollow feeling in my heart. I didn't think I should ever get over it."

"Oh, Merry." Frodo hugged him about the shoulders. Merry clutched his cousin tight. It was such a relief, to have Frodo's strong arms around him, his sun-warmed skin radiating into Merry's own, his cheek laid upon Merry's hair. Merry felt a tear start, but he daren't sniffle. It was Frodo who had suffered so very much. Merry's regrets weren't anything, next to his.

"I'm so sorry, Merry," Frodo whispered. "The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you."

"It's all right." The tears were sliding down Merry's nose, although Frodo couldn't see them. "You had to go to your own place. I knew that."

Frodo rocked Merry in his arms. "Knowing and feeling are two different things, my lad."

"I know." Merry sniffled then, but it didn't matter. Frodo could hear by his voice that he was crying. "But I think… it's like you said before, when you were alone that night, before I was born. I think… sometimes you need to be alone. It's part of growing up."

Frodo squeezed Merry fiercely tight, then left a kiss in his hair. "You're an amazing creature, Merry Brandybuck. You're a much finer hobbit than you give yourself credit for being."

The tears fell freely, splotching Frodo's breeks. Merry blotted his eyes with the back of his hand. It was either that or drip, as his handkerchief was doubtless a cold wad of dampness deep in one of his trouser pockets.

Frodo, as always, perceived his difficulty. A white kerchief was pushed into Merry's hands. He sat up, so he could blow his nose properly. He wiped his eyes, to see Frodo smiling at him. _Really_ smiling, with his love shining in his eyes. Merry suddenly felt he could fly. He laughed, and tidied his face.

"I shan't mind now if you do it," he said, handing the handkerchief back to Frodo.

Frodo looked bewildered. "Do what?"

"Give my pipe away. I _want_ you to do it. It's what you came here for, isn't it?"

Frodo studied his younger cousin, then clapped him on the shoulder. "I've a better idea. Come, get your clothes on. They're dry enough now, I daresay."

Merry stood, bewildered. "Where are we going?"

"To the Hall. It's nearly tea time."

Merry stared. "Tea." After all this, Frodo was thinking of _tea_?

Frodo grinned. "Ah, what you _don't_ know is that after tea, every year on this date, we go up to my parents' grave. Your Mum, Dad, and me." He smiled gently. "This year, I'd like for you to go with us."

Merry stood galvanized, then bolted for his clothes. "Oh, Frodo, do you mean it?" He yanked his breeks from the nearest bush, tangling his bracers in the process. He jerked them free impatiently. "I should like above all things to share that with you."

Frodo laughed. "I should say that you have earned the right, after all I've put you through this afternoon." He shook out his own shirt that Merry had been sitting on, and started to slip it on. Merry dressed so quickly, Frodo was still fastening his cuffs when Merry tumbled back into the clearing, waistcoat half on, ready to dash up the path towards the Hall.

"Ready!" he puffed.

Frodo grasped him playfully by the back of the neck. "You are one of a kind, Merry Brandybuck."

"So are you—Frodo Baggins."

Frodo grinned. "Come on."

He led the way from the willow brake to the rough path that paralleled the River. His expression was calm, as it had been when Merry had first come across him—an age ago, that now seemed.

Merry said suddenly, "Will you tell me about your parents, Frodo? That is, if it won't upset you."

Frodo's step slowed, and his brows drew together. Just when Merry thought he'd once again put his foot in it, Frodo said, "Well, there _is_ a little-known fact about Drogo."

"Yes?" said Merry eagerly.

Frodo met his eyes slyly. "He could make the scariest squeaky noises of anyone in the Hall."

Merry gaped. He'd hardly expected _this_!

"It's true," Frodo carried on, enjoying his moment. "It went this way." And Frodo made an uncanny noise of a stiff hinge slowly creaking open.

Merry clapped a hand over his mouth to stop a laugh.

"Of course, he did it better than I do," said Frodo blithely. "He used to do it at night to frighten me, when he came to tuck me in."

Merry giggled. "What else did he do?"

"Well, he used this one to frighten my mother." Frodo pursed his lips, took a puff of air, then tapped his cheek, releasing it. It made the perfect sound of a water drop hitting a bucket of water.

"Oh, that is _brilliant_!" Merry cried.

"Yes. He had Mum turned round every which way when it rained, looking for the leak. He had me near under the table with laughter sometimes, before Mum figured it out."

"What else?" Merry skipped along in delight. "Frodo, tell me everything!"

0-0-0-

The sun was sinking towards the Brandywine, but the day was still light, when the little group of four stood round Drogo and Primula's grave. It was just as Frodo had said it would be. The party stood in silence, or remembered things aloud. None of them were what Merry had heard that afternoon. He supposed it would be far too much, to try to sum up two people's lives in a single ceremony.

His father placed a wreath on Primula's grave, and his mum put one on Drogo's. Frodo lit a pair of candles at the base of the headstone. Merry had never felt them to be so much a family as now, when he knelt to lay his little pipe upon the grave.

Turning back, he knew beyond any doubt how truly his cousin had spoken. It didn't matter what happened to the pipe, not really. For he had only to look into Frodo's tear-shiny eyes, to know how much he was loved.


End file.
